Bound For Eden (45 page)

‘They seemed more interested in Matt than Luke,' Alex observed.

‘Not for long. You should have heard them talking afterwards. You'd think he was some kind of
god
the way they go on about him.'

Alex scowled. ‘Why? What were they saying?'

‘It doesn't matter,' Vicky insisted. ‘What matters is that I was wrong. I thought he felt the same way about me, but it's plain that he doesn't.'

‘Oh.'

‘I'm not sure Luke feels that way about any woman.'

Alex was scowling again.

‘I'm sorry,' Victoria said sympathetically, giving her hand a squeeze, ‘I know you had feelings for him too. But I don't want to see you hurt.'

‘I don't want to see you hurt either,' Alex replied. ‘Are you really sure you want to marry Ned?'

‘Oh, yes,' Victoria exclaimed, throwing herself back on the bed with a sigh. ‘Have you seen the way he looks at me? He says I glow like a second sun.'

Alex giggled. ‘More Milton?'

‘No, not even Byron. It's all his own idea,' Victoria said, marvelling that anyone could think such a thing about
her
– plain old Victoria Sparrow.

‘I'm happy for you,' Alex assured her, giving her a hard hug.

‘I'm going to have a June wedding,' Victoria said dreamily. ‘And I'm going to wear French lace—'

‘Will it be yellow?' Alex interrupted with a laugh.

‘No, of course not. Although I might carry yellow flowers,' she admitted, her eyes sparkling. ‘And maybe the girls can wear yellow. And you, of course. What shade do you think you'll suit?'

‘Me?' Alex said, flooding with warmth at the thought.

‘Of course you, you ninny. You're my sister.'

‘Victoria?' Alex called after her when she was leaving.

‘Hmm?'

Alex's stomach was a ball of knots. ‘If you don't have feelings for Luke any more . . .' She plucked at the quilt, unable to look her sister in the eye. ‘You wouldn't mind if I . . .?'

‘No, Alex,' Victoria said in a compassionate voice, ‘I wouldn't mind at all. But be careful. Don't go getting your heart broken.'

Now, on the night of the dance, as the first winter snow began falling in glittering swirls, Victoria looked up at Alex's window. Ned flicked the reins and the wagon jolted forward. She raised her hand in a good luck wave.

Alex waved back.

When she stepped away from the window her heart was pounding. Dell Pritchard was due to pick her up at any minute. She grinned as she imagined the look on Luke's face when she descended the stairs. Should she wait until Dell arrived before she went down? Maybe if she went down earlier, Luke would be overcome enough to take her into his arms . . .

No, that wouldn't do. They might never make it to the dance, and she did so want to get there. After all, she'd worked hard this morning to help decorate the McCauleys' store. They'd hung wreaths and boughs, cut snowflakes out of crisp white paper and dangled them from the ceiling on wisps of string, and scattered the room with candles. She knew it would be beautiful by candlelight.

She smiled dreamily, imagining how the night would play out. In her mind it was so like the dance in Independence: Luke would spend every moment with her; he would bribe the band to play slow songs; he would stare down into her eyes as though she were the only woman in the world.

And it would be made sweeter by the fact that Aurelia Hardwig would be there watching.

She knew it was mean-spirited, but she couldn't seem to help herself. In every version of the fantasy, Arnelle was standing in the corner, alone (sometimes looking lank-haired and pimply even), and Luke didn't even notice she was there.

Maybe that was too harsh . . . she adjusted the fantasy so Aurelia could dance with Matt. Or Dell. Ah hell, Alex thought, feeling suddenly magnanimous, she could dance with any man she liked, so long as it wasn't Luke.

‘We're leaving now, Alex,' Matt bellowed up the stairs. ‘We'll see you there!'

Her heart lodged in her throat. What did he mean they were
leaving
? Luke couldn't leave yet – he hadn't seen her!

As she flew from her room she heard the click of the front door. She was halfway down the stairs before she noticed him.

Luke stopped dead, frozen with his fingers at the button of his stiff collar. Hell and damnation. The woman was practically naked. Look at the way she came spilling out of that dress with every breath.

It worked, Alex thought breathlessly, noticing the heat in his black eyes as they explored every last inch of her. She felt that wonderfully familiar pulse begin to beat deep inside.

‘You're not leaving the house in that,' he said through gritted teeth.

She frowned.

‘Get right back up there and change into something respectable. That green one you wore the other day will do just fine.'

She drew an indignant breath. This wasn't going the way she'd imagined.

‘And stop breathing,' he thundered, alarmed by the way she swelled over the low neckline of the gown.

‘I beg your pardon,' she said stiffly, her excitement turning to ashes, ‘but this dress is perfectly respectable.' Well, maybe not perfectly, she amended silently, but it was respectable enough. ‘Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll just get my coat. My escort should be here any minute.' If the gown didn't work, maybe the threat of competition would.

He'd be damned if he'd let Dell Pritchard see her in that.

Alex watched in astonishment as he spun on his heel and left. She stomped her foot. What was wrong with the idiot man? Didn't he realise that he was supposed to be enchanted? Besotted? Or, at the very least, appreciative? Maybe he wasn't attracted to her any more, she thought sickly. She heard footsteps and looked up. Her eyes flew wide and she gasped. ‘You wouldn't dare!'

He was coming for her, a stubborn gleam in his dark eyes. In his hands he held two coiled ropes. ‘You are
not
going out in that. Either you change, or you stay.'

She screamed and bolted for her room. She'd barely scaled the stairs before she felt his iron grip. She struggled like a woman possessed.

Grimly, Luke hoisted her over his shoulder. He could feel her fists pounding his back, and her flailing feet were coming dangerously close to his groin. He kicked open the door to her room and tossed her down on the bed. ‘Last chance, sweetheart,' he warned.

‘There is
nothing
wrong with this dress,' she shouted at him, completely infuriated. He was supposed to
like
the damn thing!

With every word her breasts heaved against the cranberry satin and Luke's glare grew blacker. ‘Have it your way,' he snapped, pinning her beneath him as he grabbed her wrists. She bit and bucked and kicked and screamed, but nothing deterred him, and before long she was tied firmly to the bed. Luke stood back and regarded her with satisfaction, unmindful of the bruises he'd sustained.

‘Dell will hear me scream,' she shrieked at him.

He grabbed a length of satin from the pile of off-cuts by her sewing basket. ‘You can't stop me wearing this dress,' she managed to bellow before he gagged her. ‘I'll wear it every day for the rest of my damned life if I want to!'

She noticed with satisfaction his sudden look of impotent rage at her words. Then her eyes widened in horror. Triumphantly, Luke withdrew the long-bladed silver scissors from her basket. He snipped the scissors in the air a couple of times. He wouldn't!

He would.

She didn't care if she was gagged, she shouted every vile word she could think of at him. He ignored her muffled ranting and approached her, a dark gleam in his eyes. With a look of satisfaction he took the scissors to her beautiful satin dress. The rasp of the blades rang in Alex's ears. She could feel the cold hard press of the metal against her as he cut the dress away from her body. He was merciless. He didn't stop until the gown lay in ribbons around her.

It was only when there was nothing left to cut that the red rage began to recede and Luke saw what he'd done. She was deathly still. Her face was as white as the sheet. Only her eyes were alive, and they burned with wrath. Luke was in no doubt that if looks could kill he would have keeled over right then and there.

A staccato knocking at the front door startled them both.

‘I suppose that will be Dell,' he said sardonically. ‘Excuse me for a moment, won't you, sweetheart.' The scissors clattered to the dresser and she heard his footsteps as he descended the stairs. There was the sound of the front door opening.

‘Dell,' she heard him say faintly, a note of regret hanging heavy in his voice, ‘I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, but I'm afraid Miss Barratt has taken unexpectedly to her bed.'

The unbelievable bastard. Alex bit down hard on the satin and imagined that she was biting through his jugular.

‘Is there anything I can do?' Dell was asking.

‘No, it's nothing a night of peace and quiet won't cure.'

She'd give him peace and quiet, she thought, her eyes fixed on the shining blades of the scissors. The minute he untied her she'd plunge those blades through his cold dead heart.

Luke watched a very disappointed Dell Pritchard climb back into his wagon and head into town alone. Once the sound of the wagon had receded he sank to the porch steps, feeling suddenly shaky. What on earth had come over him? He'd acted like an animal.

Luke rubbed his face, taking big gulps of the cold air. The snow was falling steadily now, and he was glad of its chill kiss on the bare skin of his hands and face. Lord, but she'd been beautiful, coming down those stairs. He could still see the way the lamplight clung lovingly to her lush curves, casting shadows in the deep hollow between her breasts. And that face. Like some kind of wood sprite, out to tempt and tease.

Luke groaned, hearing the phantom rasp of the scissors. He was going mad. Every day the torture got worse, not better. Every morning she showed up in some new dress, prettier and prettier until he thought he'd never sleep again for the dreams she inflicted on him.

He was lost, he thought, lowering his hands and staring into the swirling snow. Completely and utterly lost. He had been ever since he'd seen her at Dolly's, sprawled out in Delia's bed, all sleepy and warm. She'd spoiled any other woman for him. He hadn't touched another woman since their first night together, he thought in shock. He compared every woman he saw to her, and they came up wanting. Even Amelia Harding. Especially Amelia Harding, he thought with a sigh. What had he ever seen in her? She was so shallow, so vain.

He couldn't imagine Amelia lopping off her shiny hair and dressing in Adam's old clothes. He couldn't imagine her helping him to butcher a cow, or to lower a wagon down a hill. Or screaming at mules, he thought with a grin.

He looked up at the light burning in Alex's window. She was never going to forgive him for this.

With his tail between his legs, Luke climbed the stairs. Sure enough, she still looked mad enough to kill. He paused in the doorway. It probably wouldn't be a good idea to untie her until she'd cooled off a little. He'd be liable to find himself hit over the head with a chair.

Cautiously, he sat beside her on the bed. She was completely, ominously silent, and her gray eyes were fixed on him, as though willing him to drop dead on the spot. He sighed and tore his gaze away from hers.

Which was a dangerous thing to do, he found, suddenly aware of how skimpy her underclothes were. He'd managed to shred her petticoats along with the gown and she was completely naked except for her corset and a gossamer-fine chemise. He noticed the evil-looking bruise curving around her hip.

‘That mule really got you, didn't he?' Instinctively he reached out and brushed his fingertips over the teeth marks. She flinched. As she did her hips lifted off the bed and he swore. Her rear end was covered with a massive yellowing bruise. No wonder she'd screamed. And it had happened three weeks ago – imagine how bad it must have looked then.

Without thinking, he bent and pressed the lightest of kisses against the bruise. He heard her draw a sharp breath and he looked up, without lifting his lips from her hip. He could see the confusion mixed in with her wrath. Experimentally, he kissed her hip again, still holding her gaze. The confusion dissipated, replaced with something smoky – something he hoped might be desire.

‘I'm going to touch you,' he said softly. ‘And kiss you. You let me know if you want me to stop.' Not wanting to anger her further, he proceeded slowly. He trailed a series of butterfly-light kisses along the edge of the bruise, not breaking eye contact. When she stayed still, stretched as taut as piano wire, not making a sound of protest, he flicked his tongue against her skin.

Another sharp hiss of breath through her teeth, and he felt her muscles leap. But she didn't yell, or try to pull away. Encouraged, he traced the very tip of his tongue along her hipbone. She tasted warm and salty and he felt himself swell with desire. When he reached the dip of her stomach he paused. His hands began to stroke the backs of her thighs, following the firm curve of muscle up to her buttocks, and down again to the hollows behind her knees. He felt her tremble beneath his touch.